Clay and Pearl: Telling Luke
by KnightedRogue
Summary: A bridge passage between C&P and C&P2. Han and Leia tell Luke about their relationship.
1. Chapter 1

Clay and Pearl Bridge Passage: _Telling Luke_

* * *

Languorous blue light brushed against skin, darkness like a sheet above their heads. Leia Organa and Han Solo recovered: sweat drying, breath calming: dimming, sated pleasure humming through their veins. The galaxy's colossal ramshod spinning of the past few minutes stuttered into a gentler rhythm. A beautiful silence permeated the quarters, like silk against fingers and lips against lips.

Blissful quiet. Descending drowsiness. The most ethereal taste of oneness on their tongues, the heat that cooled in a mechanized, environmentally-controlled cabin on a star cruiser built for war. Somewhere outside the cabin was a corridor where revolutionaries stormed to fight, where the galaxy's last hope for peace brokered war. Where violent conflict was planned, waged, won and lost.

And yet Leia felt so calm, so wonderfully relaxed, that she hardly noticed when Han folded her into his chest. His skin was warm, always so warm, and she nestled into him with all the contented pleasure she felt. Exhaustion trickled like rainwater, soothing and relieving as she settled, as her heart slowed and her eyes closed.

She'd slept better this past week than she had since…. when? Since the destruction of Alderaan? Since her election to the Imperial Senate? Since her life had become less about her own ambition and more about fighting a near-unwinnable war. The galaxy's future weighed on her shoulders like duracrete, pounding like her heartbeat in her ears.

But not here. Not with Han. Not consumed by his heat, his skin. She was safe and free to be normal, infatuated: a passionate woman in love with the man in her bed. Everything else could go hang for a few hours outside the walls of her cabin. She could rest and that in itself was so extraordinary that it sometimes made tears prickle the edges of her eyes. Relief, utter and complete, in being able to trust the universe to still be in order as she fell asleep with Han, as he held her, as she whispered _I love you _into the blood-hot skin of his chest.

She was so proud of him, of _them, _of the steps they'd taken to create this haven for themselves in mere days. All the pain—all the pride and fear—pushed aside to experience what they could be together.

Leia's thoughts slowed, blurred into hazy color. Wandering sparks of insight fizzled, and she breathed into well-loved skin and hair, feeling warm. Safe. Cherished.

"We gotta tell Luke."

She blinked, startled by the low rumble of Han's voice. She felt rather than heard him, ear pressed to his chest, interrupted from the lullaby of his slowing heartbeat. His voice had come out of nowhere, had blown through her satisfied haze like an ion cannon through vacuum.

_Luke who? _she thought, facetious but only just.

"Not now," she whispered into his skin, pressed her lips to his throat as if to soothe it into silence.

It was late. So late. The chronometer on the hull was blurry, but she thought it said 0134. It wasn't an unusual hour for her to be awake, although the novelty of seeing it because of this with Han was still fresh. She had a full schedule tomorrow morning and needed to be able to command attention with grace and intelligence. She should be asleep.

The problem had been her own desire, the hollow wanting in her chest with _Han Solo _scrawled on it in vibrant red ink. She'd wanted him badly the day before, had acutely felt his absence from her side the minute she'd left him. The day had been a mess of meetings and briefings and hours spent in front of her holo-terminal in her office, challenging and hard. And her meals had been lonely affairs with High Command staff; the rations had been wholly unsatisfying and so had been the company. Hours and hours of tedium when all she wanted was to see him smile, to see him walk by and growl her name in private, teasing tones.

When Han had stopped by her quarters later this evening she'd nearly attacked him in her desperation. She'd pulled him to her like she couldn't breathe without him, like she had been slowly suffocating all day. Sometimes it felt that way, like he took the oxygen with him when they parted in the mornings, like her nerves didn't settle until they felt the warmth of his smile. It had been a vicious cycle of pleasure and pain. She generally didn't want to leave him but also relished the reunion, the _snap-crackle _of his breathless kiss, the way he couldn't get enough of her, either. She desperately needed sleep, but she felt like maybe she desperately needed him, too.

"He should know," he said.

She closed her eyes, rubbed her nose along the hair on his chest, pressed a gentle kiss to his skin.

"He should," she agreed.

Out of their small assemblage of friends only Luke was unaware of the monumental shifts between Han and Leia that had occurred on Nar Shaddaa. Chewie had been present, of course, and no one else seemed … _qualified? _Trustworthy enough to know. And Luke was their friend. Leia hesitated to admit they owed Luke the conversation, but they did. It had been Han and Luke and Chewie and Leia for so long; now that the parameters had changed, Luke deserved to know that two of his closest friends were, to put it delicately, _seeing each other._

Seeing an awful lot of each other, as it turned out. She hadn't been alone in her bunk in a week.

"He'll feel a lot worse if we wait much longer," Han warned, running a hand down the skin of her bare back.

She knew that, too. They had been careful about displays of affection, but there was always a chance Luke might stroll onto the _Falcon _and see them. Or notice that neither of them seemed to be present at many of Rogue Squadron's lackluster parties of late, that while the four of them usually ate meals together when on duty at the same time, Han and Leia had been conspicuously absent.

"You want to stake your claim?" she asked, teasing.

He jerked to look at her, green eyes flashing. "_No._"

Han looked affronted, offended, like what she'd teasingly offered as motivation for him was anathema to his moral code. The thought would be funny if it wasn't somehow a stumblingly accurate interpretation of his insulted expression. She knew Han well by now, but she didn't know him well enough yet to anticipate his reactions. And whatever else he was, Han was unpredictably ethical in his own crosseyed way.

She pressed her lips together and waited for him to explain himself.

"I just know I would've wanted to be told if it'd gone the other way."

She bit her tongue, surprised at the heat in his voice. She'd known that there had been a friendly competition for her affection in the early days of Luke and Han's involvement in the Alliance. But she'd thought they'd struck a kind of agreement, an understanding that she was the lone bestower of her favor. The adolescent vying had disappeared and morphed into friendship as far as she knew.

"The other way," she murmured.

His hand stopped at her hip, wrapped around her side and pressed her body closer to his. "Yeah."

"There was no possibility of that happening."

Not in a million years. Not in this lifetime or any other. She wouldn't go so far as to say that Han and she were an inevitability; that dripped of sentimentality and any such notions she had had died with Alderaan. But she could not imagine having this conversation with Luke, discussing how to tell Han that they were together. The idea was all wrong; the whole scene would've been a farce. Maybe as a joke; no, but she would have never agreed to that. The last thing she had ever expected to find in the Alliance was someone to love.

Leia pressed her lips together and scrunched her nose as Han tugged her to lie on top of him. She folded her legs to either side of his hips and leaned her chin on her steepled fingers on his chest, looking at him so closely that she could see the flecks of gold in his eyes.

He looked good in the night-cycle light of her quarters. Not in a sexual way, although her desire for Han was now a constant whisper in her ears. No, he looked good to her in a deeper way. He looked vulnerable: bare-chested, lethargic and satisfied. His skin didn't flush the way hers did—that beautiful tan of his hid that from her—but there were marks nonetheless. A shadow on his shoulder in the shape of her teeth, one he could easily hide beneath a shirt but still, there it was. His hair was a mess on the pillow, sticking up with the rampages of her fingertips as he'd nipped at her inner thighs, as he'd pressed tiny kisses along the edges of her standard-issue Alliance underthings.

He looked properly adored. A smile snuck onto her lips that had nothing to do with their current topic of conversation.

"Sweetheart," he began. "You might have warned both of us if that had been the case."

"Luke …. Luke's not ….He's always been just a friend."

Han's hand swept lower, to the very lowest part of her back, comforting in his forthrightness, the way his physicality shined bright in the darkness of her quarters. Something she'd learned this past week; something she'd suspected since he'd run screaming after a group of stormtroopers in the corridors of the Death Star. Han exuded kinetic chaos the way she exuded self-possession. She imagined in another life, with a better childhood, he would have been a smashball player or maybe a martial artist. He understood the physical world in a way she didn't, a totally unique perspective. Not unlike a dancer the way his spatial reasoning informed him of the galaxy, of the traps and trappings of physics and mass and the way her lower back desperately needed his fingertips to soothe old nerves.

"No spark," he murmured.

She lifted her chin to kiss his lips, full and warm and tasting vaguely of her soap. "No spark," she agreed. "But you're right. We should tell him."

"He's probably already figured it out. Seemed awful suspicious at dinner last night."

Leia rolled her eyes. "Might have had something to do with your hand on my leg."

Unbothered, he shrugged and offered no defense.

_Tactile, _that was the missing word for Han. Physical and tactile. Touch-starved, in a way: some long-suppressed trauma hidden in his past. She had waded into his depths but there was still so much ground to cover. A tempting kind of unfathomable, the way his fingers needed her skin.

The quiet blanketed them again but the dreamlike stillness had faded. They were awake, wide awake, eyes on each other. _Way to ruin the mood, Han, _she thought, but the thought had no teeth. She couldn't fault him for wanting to do right by their friend.

She reached up to run her fingers over the stubborn lock of hair that snuck in front of his eyes. When the lock fell back a heartbeat later she smiled and leaned up to kiss him. Soft, slow, gentle. Reassuring. Not quite chaste but a marked difference from her efforts of a few minutes before.

When she pulled away, his eyes ran tracks over her face. His hand came up to her throat, to the back of her neck. Warmth flooded her body in the quiet as she looked at him, too, at the way her heart tripped over itself when he marvelled at her like she was the newest star in his sky.

She could tell Luke about Han. She could do that. She agreed that Luke would be hurt if they didn't. And she _wanted _to tell him, too. She wanted to share her new happiness with the entire galaxy or at the very least the Alliance. But that wasn't how Bail and Breha Organa had taught her to navigate her public persona and she had no desire to answer the follow-up questions. _Where is this going? Are you sure this will last? What if this is fleeting and temporary and you wind up hurt because of it?_

No. She wasn't worried about that. There was a good chance one or both of them would die before the Emperor did. Life was pain. Avoiding it had done nothing but hurt her further the past eighteen months. Better to live to feel the pain than live without feeling the joy. Han was worth that, to her. Nar Shaddaa had taught her to hold him close, even at the risk of the hurt to come. And what if it _didn't come to pain?_

The air stilled but a new chill crept in. Han reached to cover their bodies with a rough blanket, pulling it over her shoulders like the gentleman he only was when no one was looking.

She smiled at him but knew her shivers had nothing to do with the cooling air temperature of the cabin. Nar Shaddaa had taught her to hold onto Han, yes, but it had also told her far more about herself than she was comfortable with. Her stomach burst into nervous flutters and she fought to ignore the trembling in her hands as she pulled the blanket tighter around them.

Han was somehow on the same page. "And that's all we're telling him?" he asked. "Just about us?"

A dark shape in front of her. The delicious burn of heat on her palm. The lightning-like energy of stun bolts slipping from her fingers to the stormtroopers about to capture them. Flash by flash, the scene retold itself and she knew what Han was asking.

_Obi-Wan? _A rasp, a strangled, guttural name in a busy marketplace, from the voicebox of her worst nightmare. Darth Vader, witness to a secret she hadn't known she'd kept locked somewhere in her mind. Darth Vader comparing her to a man he had cut down before her eyes.

Darth Vader, the renowned Jedi killer.

"Yes, that's all we are telling him," she answered.

She was not ready to share anything more.

Han fell silent in what Leia knew was disapproval, but she didn't care. The conversation they needed to have with Luke—_this _one, about their new relationship—would be hard enough without bringing up mystical potentials and genocidal psychopaths. Better to separate the two topics. This one was urgent; the other could wait.

The room quieted again. Their breathing was the only sound, soft and even. She ran apologetic fingers down his left arm, over the bulge of muscle and the cleft of joint and back again. His other hand resumed its steady sweep across her lower back under the weight of the blanket. Back and forth, soothing. And as she looked at him, at his too-long eyelashes and constantly-broken nose, she noticed the concern in his eyes, the way he floundered adorably in this new reality of theirs. He knew as much as she did how to do _them._That knowledge was oddly reassuring.

"How do we tell him?" she asked into the quiet.

Han looked at her, brought his wandering hand up her back to her head, nestled into the half-deconstructed braid that tangled over her shoulder.

"With food," he said.

"Food?"

"Lots of food. No one wants to hear about other people getting laid on an empty stomach."

She quirked an eyebrow as if to say _oh, naturally, _but didn't say it out loud. "So. Dinner," she said instead.

"Dinner," he agreed. "And drinks."

She nodded, rose onto her hands to reach his lips, kissed him goodnight, gentle and light. When she pulled away he tugged her closer, tucked her forehead into his throat. She could hear his heartbeat and was swallowed by her own sated exhaustion before she could blink at the chronometer's fuzzy 0140. _We'll tell him at dinner, _she thought. _With drinks._

* * *

Author's Notes: _Part 1 is dedicated to the mind-bogglingly talented _Justine Graham, _who celebrated a birthday recently. This is days late but still: happy birthday, JG! We could not ask for a better friend or fellow fan. I hope you enjoyed postcoital Han and Leia; I know they have a special place in your heart. _

_Special thanks to AmongstEmeraldClouds for the quick beta and for catching the tone and grammar mistakes. Thank you!_

_This is a two-part bridge passage between C&P and C&P2. Part 2 of the bridge passage will be posted next Friday, September 27th. Thank you!_

_-KR_


	2. Chapter 2

Clay and Pearl Bridge Passage: _Telling Luke_

Part II

* * *

Chewie was already in the galley when Leia arrived to the _Falcon _the following evening. She was late; no later than the time she'd told Luke, but late enough that she'd missed most of the dinner preparations. She'd commed Chewie to apologize and had only heard a mild chuckle that she'd taken to mean _the galley did not mind your absence. _She'd scowled at the comm and finished her datawork with a vague sense of culinary embarrassment.

The _Falcon_'s galley wasn't large—only a few meters square—and Chewie took up most of the space on his own. A heating unit and a cleaning valet were spot-welded to the starboard hull_. _Somewhere in her sordid history, the _Falcon _had also managed to pick up a flash-freezer and a short-cook appliance. Leia knew how to safely use none of it. She had planned to chop vegetables or prepare the meat—both activities she could do with a very little bit of finesse—but her late arrival had made Chewie responsible for the entire meal.

The holochess table wasn't set—of course it wasn't—but several clean, empty bowls were haphazardly placed on it, ready for filling. Chewie stood in what looked like a hurricane destruction zone, replete with a broken glass on the deck, dirty plates on every flat surface imaginable and the lights had been dimmed to his preferred mood lighting for cooking. The Wookiee hunkered over the heating unit, throwing spices into a pot with all the care of a feral bantha. The sheer size of the pot was overwhelming; it was enormous, larger than her torso by a good six-centimeter radius. The galley smelled delicious, like roasting meat and heating cream.

"Oh, Chewie, you've made far too much food," she said, dropping her satchel and datapad on the deck next to the holochess table. "That's enough to feed us _and_ half the Alliance."

_I am hungry, too, _he growled.

She smiled. "You can't eat that much."

_You would be surprised, _he muttered, then spoke clearer, slower, for her benefit. _This event requires food because you have waited too long. It is good luck to over-prepare._

Chewie had been vocal about his opinion on the subject. The morning after Han and Leia had first slept together, he had stalked over to the _Falcon _from his exile and explained that he was prepared to tell Luke that very day. Wookiee culture apparently found the general squeamishness of human sexuality offensive and as such had been a stern opponent to their secrecy. Leia hadn't realized he was still harboring the opinion: Han must have been trying to keep that pressure from her.

"It's only been a week," she defended.

Chewie turned a piercing look over his shoulder. _Yes. An entire week._

Her mind flitted to scenes of the week before, of the starving desperation between Han and Leia, the unparalleled hunger of a new-found intimacy. She remembered their first night together on the _Falcon. _And the morning after, when she had been overcome with pride in him as she dressed for an early meeting. And the meals they'd skipped, the meetings that had been a mental sortie between the tactical function of a Mon Cal battle cruiser and the taste of Han's sweat when she pressed her tongue against his throat.

A week was a long time. Chewie was right. But she wasn't about to admit it to him.

"That's not—I don't—it's just been..." she trailed off, helpless.

He whuffed a laugh. _Perhaps you are not seeing the situation clearly, Little Princess. _

She opened her mouth, remembered Han's urging of the night before, and then pressed her lips into a thin line. "Perhaps."

_And at this point, I think it best to offer as much food as I can, _he added with a toothy smirk_. Human males have big feelings but they are easily soothed with food._

"By all means," she said.

She stepped to the hidden compartment where Han and Chewie kept their stash of alcohol, separate from the one the Rogues knew about. She crouched, lifted a small, discrete panel, and stuck her head in the unlit nook behind it. She was going to need, _ah, _assistance with this conversation, and Chewie's warnings echoed in her ears. Perhaps they had waited too long to tell Luke. It hadn't seemed that way, but then again, she'd been… distracted.

_There is a dry Corellian red in there, _Chewie offered. _And whiskey. Little Jedi might prefer that when you tell him of your mating._

Leia closed her eyes, still hidden in the nook. "Please don't call it that in front of Luke."

_That is what you have been doing, yes? Mating? Or are you simply arguing with each other in another part of the ship?_

"Chewie."

_I am very funny, _he complimented himself.

She found the red wine but gave up on the whiskey when her legs cramped. She disentangled herself from the nook, grasped the wine bottle like a disappointing treasure. Whiskey would have been preferable; Chewie seemed to be speaking a lot of sense tonight.

A thread of anxiety squirmed in her chest: not new but suddenly very identifiable. _Oh, goddess, we've waited too long to tell him, _she thought.

"You harassing my princess again, furball?"

Han's voice rumbled from the corridor, preceding the man by mere moments. Deep but loud, announcerly, like he deserved his own microphone. Leia smiled at his typical brashness. She eyed his rangy form, the way her heart picked up just by seeing him. He wore his spacer garb like a suit of armor. Long legs, narrow waist, broad shoulders, a grin so white it was blinding nestled in bronze skin and dark hair.

_Oh, stop it, _she told herself. _This is why you are in trouble in the first place._

Han sauntered in her direction and handed her a green glass bottle with a label in a script she didn't recognize. He kissed her quickly, avoiding a scene—poor Chewie had already seen far too much of that—and then moved past her, nonchalant and comfortable. She envied his ease, the way he casually went about his ship like it was an extension of his limbs. He slipped beneath Chewie's elbow, peered into the giant pot and turned an approving nod up to his copilot.

"Thanks, pal. This looks great."

Chewie warbled something she did not understand. By Han's reaction it must have been an epithet and Leia laughed despite her looming anxiety. She glanced back down at the bottle in her hands, tried to discern why Han had tucked it away in a hidden compartment separate from the usual spot. But of course there were more hiding places than she knew on the _Falcon. _Knowing Han, there was probably a veritable maze of secret spaces on this ship.

"What is this?" she asked.

"Tatooine's finest," Han said, holding up his hands to indicate his suspicion. "Luke likes it. Tastes like water but he says it packs a wallop."

She made a face and handed it back to him. "Wine for me, please."

"Figured we could butter the kid up," he said with a shrug. "Couldn't hurt, huh?"

Leia nodded, but the thought tumbled into anxiety in her chest, like an avalanche amongst the thread. She could feel slithering fingers in her stomach, a hollow where her intestines should be. In the background she could hear Chewie and Han talking, notes in a familiar, friendly repartee but she turned inward, condensing in on herself like a norahawk beetle. The stress that had simmered in her chest all day—from the moment she'd awoken to the minute she'd stepped onto the _Falcon_'s boarding ramp—exploded into a full-body event. She could feel it spread like wildfire, tendrils through fascia and bone and muscle.

She swept a hand over her immaculately-braided coronet, angry at herself for her indecisiveness, her impotent anxiety. She'd withstood interrogation by Darth Vader; she'd looked into the eyes of a monster as he'd threatened her home. She'd been beaten and robbed of her humanity. She faced death every day and hadn't yet bowed under the pressure of her station. She could handle an awkward conversation with one of her closest friends.

_I do not understand this dinner, _Chewie was saying. _You could have told him the morning after it happened and he would not have cared._

"It's not something you just tell people," Han said, voice rising. "It's private."

_Wookiees celebrate such things, _Chewie growled. _You humans worry over nothing._

"Yeah, well, we're different."

Chewie turned back to the enormous pot, stirred. _Little Jedi will not care, but it was stupid to not tell him immediately. He might care more about the delay than the actual mating. _

"See, here I agree with Doctor Feel-Good over there," Han said, coming to a rest and leaning on the hull next to Leia. "We shoulda told him right away."

Leia threw up a half-hearted defense. "There wasn't time. We came back and suddenly you're a commander and that was enough of a change—"

"Bullshit. There was time," Han said. "And now it looks like a dirty little secret."

Han couldn't be more correct. It was like a sledgehammer to her sternum, the feeling of doubt about her own perceptions. _Dirty little secret _wasn't a phrase she knew—it sounded Corellian to her—but it hit the right note. A dalliance. A fling. A preoccupation. And that wasn't what their relationship was, hadn't ever been; _casual _was the last word anyone would use to describe the tension that had flared between them since the detention block of the Death Star_. _

"It's not a dirty little secret," she said, eyes finding Han's. "And I'm not ashamed."

Han crossed his arms, leaned against the hull between Leia and Chewie. "Damn right you're not," he said. "Ease up, Highness. It's gonna be fine."

"What's going to be fine?"

Silence like a frozen exhale, ringing loud in guilty ears. The galley stopped at the new voice, three sets of eyes wide and startled. They turned to see Luke Skywalker enter the galley in his wrinkled fatigues, sandy hair a mop on his head, blue eyes twinkling in the low lights. He grinned at them, spread his hands, and waited for the welcome he assumed was coming. When three long seconds passed without any of them speaking, his smile dropped like a stone.

"Everything okay in here?" he asked, concerned.

_Everything is well, _Chewie growled. _Welcome, Little Jedi._

"Yeah. Hi, kid," Han said. "Hungry?"

Luke shrugged, leaned against the galley counter. "Sure smells great in here. I'm ready for some real food. It's been awhile."

"Tell me about it. Those rations are a bitch," Han grunted. "Taste like a Gamorrean leather belt."

_Worse than that, _Chewie added.

"I understand rationing but these new orders are ridiculous_,_" Luke said, slapping Han's back as he passed.

Leia breathed a sigh of relief, the awkward moment passing to the side for the larger conversational target of High Command's newest order: a severe food rationing while Echo Base was built and prepared for occupation. The complaints were everywhere in the halls of the officers' wing and the ensign break rooms: the sim labs where Rogue Squadron lurked: the medbays with chatty staff members: the docking stations with bored mechanics and engineers.

_Home One _was a sea of complaining rebels. This was a safe conversation. She knew her lines well.

"If you geniuses have any great ideas on how to find a low-cost catering service, I'm all ears," Leia sad. "Low-cost as in _free._"

_Recruit more botanists, _Chewie said.

"Hire Chewie," Luke suggested.

"Eat High Command," Han added, as ever offering the least helpful proposal.

She rolled her eyes. "_I'm _High Command."

"Exact—uh."

Another pause, even more awkward than the first. Leia wanted to crawl into one of the smuggling compartments and hide. Han's intent had been clear, blazingly so: the kind of off-color, inappropriate humor he'd adopted around her since they'd begun sleeping together. She loved it, challenged it, thrived on it in the privacy of the bunk they shared, but it was the last thing he needed to use right now. He would've been less obvious if he'd kissed her right there in the galley.

Luke tilted his head, raised an eyebrow in a way that reminded her of her own facial expressions. Dry, almost withering. Knowing, with a sudden flash. Heat and glee and clear intention.

_The meal is ready, _Chewie announced and Leia had never been so grateful for a reprieve in her life.

"Great!" she said too brightly, and clapped her hands.

"Fantastic," Han agreed, moving to do nothing but crowd Chewie in the galley.

Leia watched them for a moment, then turned to Luke. He still had an eyebrow raised and the full force of his open, sunny expression directed squarely at her. The combination of the obvious knowledge in his eyes with the innocent curve of his lips was like a landspeeder breaking the sound barrier in her throat. He knew.

Of course he knew. No one in their right mind would be able to move past that comment—and even worse, their reactions to it—without comment. No one. Not Leia Organa. Not Han Solo. And not Luke Skywalker. Not since he'd been deemed the darling of the Alliance, been the toast of numerous celebrations. Not eighteen months into a bloody war, where humor turned blissfully dark to counteract the despair.

She opened her mouth to admit it, right then and there. _We're together, _she thought. _Sleeping together. A romantic pair. In a relationship. We're sorry we didn't tell you earlier. _

But something stopped the words: the guile in his eyes, maybe, like a challenge, the clear presence of Rogue Leader in full action. Luke wasn't just a farmboy from Tatooine anymore. He was the commander of the Alliance's own version of a prankster holoshow, ready to play them for all they were worth. And with that responsibility came clear, harrowing challenge.

She held Luke's daring eyes, finding understanding there and an almost sophomorish delight in her discomfort.

_Oh, you little sand-gnat, _she thought.

Her anxiety flew away from her faster than the _Falcon _had escaped the Death Star. This was no longer about telling Luke. This was a war within a war. A battle for supremacy. A high-stakes sabacc game, betting embarrassment and gloating. And Luke thought he could beat her? A consummate professional, an Imperial senator?

Fine, then.

"You, first," she said, and motioned for Luke to precede her to the enormous pot.

He grinned at her, bright and bedeviled, moved to fill his bowl and sat at the holochess table as was routine. Leia walked into the galley next, shoved her shoulder into Han's side and whispered, "He knows."

Han shrugged. "Yeah."

"That _stupid _joke," she said. "You couldn't keep it together for a minute before you just—"

"You know what?" he interrupted, catching her eye as he spooned dinner into her bowl. "He knows. So what? That's the whole point of the dinner."

"Not like that."

Han's eyes turned dark, emeralds in the light. "What's the worst he could do? He'll have his fun and then we get to kick him out and have ours. Stop worrying."

She dug her elbow into his side and then turned and followed Luke's example, sitting next to him on the booth of the holochess table. Bowls filled and drinks poured, a hush swept over them as they ate, the only sound the scrape of utensils against ancient, mismatched crockery and low compliments as they ate the first real meal they'd had in weeks. Chewie sat on a nearby crate, his legs too long to comfortably fit in the booth.

And then, inevitable as a planetary sunrise, the conversation returned to the ration order.

"What really sucks is that you two aren't going on supply runs anymore," Luke said to Han and Chewie. "That's gotta be part of the problem, right?"

Leia nodded. Han Solo, smuggler and contractor, had been famous within Alliance hierarchy for his ability to steal, con and escape with a litany of black market supplies. But Commander Han Solo of what was being jokingly called _Mercenary Squadron_—or the Mercs, for short—was not available for his usual load of runs, tied as he was forming and trading his flight. The loss of their best smuggler to respectability was having a marked effect on the supplies.

"Some," Han agreed. "You can't order people to be good at thieving."

Leia rolled her eyes. "You also aren't the only smugglers in our ranks. Supply will figure it out."

"Nah, but we're the best, Sweetheart. Even you can't deny that."

Leia took a bite of Chewie's magnificent meal—a genius feat, considering all the ingredients must have been flash-frozen weeks ago—and silently allowed Han his boast. Even before she'd admitted she'd fallen in love with him, she would have agreed; she'd found Han and Chewie's smuggling to be awe-inspiring. They weren't even controlled chaos. They were pure insanity and their brilliant track record bespoke more talent than she could comprehend.

"We could have done a run to Ryloth and been back already if I wasn't so busy," Han added.

"Oh?" Luke asked. "Busy with what?"

Leia's head turned so fast that she nearly choked on her wine.

"_Commanding, _kid," Han answered, smooth as Corellian whiskey. "The Rogues don't keep you up all hours with their shenanigans?"

Luke chewed, thoughtful, and nodded. Han kicked Leia's shin lightly, a reprimand to cool her jets. They had a war to win here, and she was jumping at shadows.

_Have you considered asking anyone about working for Supply instead of SFC? _Chewie asked from across the room.

"The Mercs would fit in better there, anyway," Luke said, "considering their, uh, backgrounds."

Han's squadron was at best considered a risky endeavor. He operated directly under Carlist Rieekan, an Alderaanian general who valued soldiers of different backgrounds and who had suggested Han's particular brand of leadership might help gather and recruit other free trade mercenaries to their cause in an official capacity. Time would tell if the gamble worked for High Command. Leia, however, had no doubts.

And as the lone representative from High Command, she answered the question. "He can't. We need his numbers for scouting runs."

"Got twenty on my roster now that we added Salla."

"Twenty?!" Luke exclaimed, genuinely surprised. She could almost feel his shock. "There are twenty beings willing to call you _sir?"_

Han sat back with a roguish grin, crossed his arms over his chest. "The best are lining up out the door."

Chewie growled. _It helps that Salla told them about our role in the Battle of Nar Shaddaa._

Luke blinked, leaned in. "Have they all lost their minds?"

Leia laughed, covered her grin at Han's fake-wounded expression while Chewie rumbled with his own laughter. _Yes! _he growled through his chortling.

"Oh, fine, fine," Han said. "You morons _beg _me to join you and then give me a hard time when I do a good fuckin' job?"

"Unfortunately," Leia broke in, exaggerating her annoyance to its full capacity, "Han's right. His flight is already showing promise. High Command is keeping a close eye on him."

She thought she heard Luke say _not close enough, _but couldn't be sure over Chewie's barking laugh.

Han seemed to hear something, too, and tripped over himself to keep Luke quiet. "Plus Blue Squadron is assigned to Supply. They'll get their paws on some food soon, I bet. Can't strike out all the time."

Leia agreed. "We'll be fine. This is just a rough patch."

_Very rough, _Chewie growled into his bowl. Leia cut her eyes to him but held her tongue, brought her spoon to her mouth as a delay tactic.

Han continued the conversation, ignoring Chewie. "They'll get what we need."

"You know, I think some of us already do."

Bright as a sun, Luke's smile looked perfectly innocent. His words had been innocent, too, but the look, _oh_, the look in his eyes played at Leia's rage like a fine musician. It triggered every interpersonal weak spot she had, years of political acumen suddenly narrowed into a fine beam to destroy the Skywalker line then and there.

"You think so?" she said, her words airy and light. "You think the Alliance is perfectly stocked? That the ration is a joke?"

Luke's eyes crinkled, caught on to her ploy. "Well, no, obviously not—"

"Then why do you think we have what we need?"

She had him and he knew it. Luke scowled and took the point. Leia eased back into the ancient leather of the holochess booth with a quick sense of victory. Point to her, and a good reminder to Luke that she could easily outthink him.

Han paused. She wasn't sure if he'd had caught the thread or not, but if he had he seemed bent on ignoring them. "Once the Mercs are up and ready to go, we can take some runs," he said. "But they've got a long way to go."

"How _are _they doing?" Leia asked, genuinely interested and also desperate to change the subject.

"Ah, you know how it is. They're a bunch of independents and now they gotta work together. It's a learning curve."

"Anyone clip anyone's wings again?" Luke asked.

Leia wasn't sure to what Luke referred but assumed it was the usual locker-talk, the kind of pilot-bickering to which she was not privy.

Han pointed a finger, leaned in with a mock-serious scowl on his face. "That happened once_."_

_Once is one time too many, Cub._

"Seems like a serious failure of command to me," Luke said with a shrug. "Rogues haven't had one clipped wing since I made commander."

"You didn't have to bare-knuckle command a bunch of smugglers," Han said.

"I swear someone told me the best were lining up out the door to join?" Luke replied back, quick as a whip.

"Ah, fuck you." Han said, playful-serious, then turned to Leia. "You believe this shit?"

"It's interesting that he thinks he knows more about your life than you do," she agreed.

She meant it as a joke. She meant it as a teasing nudge at Luke stepping into the personal lives of other people—which he did often and to his own detriment—but what she hadn't anticipated was the immediate impact on Luke. His eyes turned sharp: narrow, blue beams where usually lived warmth and stubborn naivete. His mouth edged up into a one-sided smirk, reminiscent of Han but less dire, less predatory. He set his hands on the holochess table, interlaced his fingers and leaned back like a king.

"Maybe I have eyes, Leia. Maybe I can see the obvious signs."

"Maybe your eyes are deceiving you."

"Maybe it's not just _my _eyes. Maybe it's the whole damn Alliance that sees it."

She sipped her glass of wine, eyes on Luke. He sat calm and slouched, knowing precisely what he'd said and the dangerous territory he tred. Leia imagined he thought this his best avenue of attack: veiled insinuations until one of them confessed.

But that tactic never worked as well as humans seemed to think it did. Insinuations were easy to dismiss and even easier to divert onto others. _Rookie mistake, my dear friend._

And even Han recognized it. "Sure hope we have eyes," he drawled. "We're already losing this war bad enough."

"We aren't losing," she replied, automatic, vehement, though she quite liked him saying _we. _"We won't lose."

Something she'd told herself for months, a personal mantra. _We won't lose, we can't lose, the galaxy is depending on us. _A truth more true than her own name.

Han tossed an irreverent salute in her direction, nearly always immune to such sentiment. "Whatever you say, Worship."

She tried to stifle the knee-jerk annoyed smile but failed miserably and felt the immediate wave of self-condemnation roll over her. A stupid, stupid mistake: smiling at a nickname that had incensed her just weeks ago. She'd _hated _the nickname, hated the insinuation that others should kneel before her, should treat her with benevolence and awe. Luke had witnessed Leia berate Han for calling her _Worship _on a near daily basis since the day they'd all met.

But the intervening days had left their mark. Leia suddenly felt the acute difference between who they'd been before Nar Shaddaa and who they were now. Now _Worship _wasn't a cruel nickname to reference her station and her privilege; now it reminded her of the way he looked at her when no one else was around. The heady, pleading look in his eyes when they were alone, the way he held her like he could never let go.

And hers hadn't been a verbal reaction, one that could be faked and duplicitous. Her smile at Han's particular choice of nickname had been instinctive, automatic: out of her control. Not only because they'd settled their differences and had a more productive way to extinguish their tensions, but because he now regularly looked at her like a deity to be worshipped. She suspected _Worship _was closer to the mark now that it had ever been in jest.

The intimate exchange had been made _so _public _so _quickly that she couldn't do anything but hope Luke misinterpreted it.

He sat back, pursed his lips thoughtfully. Leia took another sip, her heart pounding in her ears. The game might be up. Luke might have the immunition he needed.

"How about you, Leia? I don't think I've seen you for more than a couple minutes here and there this week."

She nodded, knowing where he was going. She imagined him like an avian scavenger, circling his prey, narrowing, narrowing, until the coast was clear and he could strike. She could feel the circles tightening around them. A spark of dark approval flared in her chest: Luke really had come a long way.

"You wouldn't believe the datawork that those heaters are costing me. I've been practically living in my office," she answered, and took another sip of her wine.

Luke's eyes stilled on hers, over the rim of her cracked wine glass, and she almost smiled at the word that sprung to mind, like he projected it to her. _Gotcha._

"I guess so," he said. "I mean, if you don't even have time to yell at Han, you must be busy."

She nodded, felt Han nudge her knee softly under the holochess table.

"Out of sight, out of mind," Han said around his spoon. "Can't expect her to daydream about me all the time."

Chewie guffawed loudly, amused at the double-talk because _yes, _that was exactly what she'd been doing this entire week. And Leia ….

Leia's dread eased away as she was ensnared in Luke's trap, as she listened to Chewie's mirth. Her anxiety melted, steady and strong like a slow-moving river. Han could fight it, play the game all he wanted, but Leia settled into acceptance, finding the idea peaceful. Luke had earned his knowledge, even if she'd been played easily by his amateurish tactics. Telling Luke had been an onerous responsibility all day; when it had become a game—be the last to admit it—it had been fun.

But now she found the deep desire to just _tell him. _The missing peace of mind had finally arrived to the dinner party, and she sagged into the holochess table and reached for Han's hand near her leg.

Luke smiled. "I wouldn't hold my breath, Han."

The steady line, well-rehearsed. She scooted closer to her smuggler, fit her body next to his so obviously that Luke's eyes seemed to grow even larger.

"Gorgeous guy like me?" Han said, catching on to her capitulation with a quizzical grin. "You bet she's daydreaming."

"In your dreams, laserbrain," she said.

And Han wrapped his right arm over her shoulders, tucked her into his side in a move that was so blatantly contradictory to their words that Leia had to smile back.

Luke—sweet, excitable Luke—exclaimed loud enough that it might have been heard outside the _Falcon, _"I knew it!"

She nodded her agreement to him, offered him a hand to shake as the ready loser in their game. "Well done, Luke. I underestimated you."

"No, you two are just so obvious_,_" he said with a wide, white grin. "When did this happen?"

Han cleared his throat but it was Chewie who answered first. _Too long ago. Please do not blame them for their delay. They are worried you will rescind your friendship._

Luke wrinkled his nose in confusion. "Like … _how long?_ Because if this has been a thing for months—"

"No, no," Leia assured him. "Just a week."

"Chewie acts like it's been a year," Han added. "Only since we got the heaters from Nar Shaddaa."

_Too long, _Chewie argued. _A Wookiee clan would have had this dinner the day after you two mated._

The response to that particular growl was nearly instantaneous. Han snarled _stop it, furball _at the same time that Luke grimaced and looked like he was about to be sick.

"I told you _not _to call it that," Leia reminded the Wookiee.

Chewie stood up, bent to gather his bowl and tankard of a mug. _I will never understand how humans took over the galaxy when you cannot even communicate properly, _he growled as he moved to the galley to begin cleaning up.

"I'm sorry we didn't tell you sooner," Leia said, leaning into the table to clasp Luke's hands. "We didn't mean to hurt you."

"Hurt me?"

"We weren't keepin' it from you, kid," Han said.

Leia nodded. "We just needed time to figure it out ourselves first."

Luke looked between them—from Han to Leia and back again—his lips upturned and his eyes bright. "I mean, it would've been weird if you'd followed Chewie's advice and told me the next day."

_I can hear you, _Chewie growled from the galley. _And I am correct. You humans are ridiculous._

"Ah, shut it," Han answered his copilot.

Leia shook her head, smiling faintly, and settled back into Han's side. She felt weightless, light, like she would drift away without Han's hand holding her down. She hadn't realized how much the prospect of telling Luke had weighed on her, how heavy it had sat on her shoulders.

"So am I like the first dinner guest you're gonna have? Planning to invite High Command and tell them you're sleeping with the new recruits, Leia?"

"_No," _Leia answered. "Just this idiot one here."

Han huffed a laugh, leaned down to kiss her temple. Luke watched the display like it was the next installment of his favorite holo-drama: eyes big, smile soft. And Leia felt like she might burst at the seams from the relief, that Luke didn't seem to be upset, that he would tease them in his own inimitable Luke way. Gentle and somehow still biting, carrying the weaponry but too reasoned to pull the trigger.

"And it's real?" he asked, gesturing between them. "This is … it's good?"

Han's smile was so big, so vast and all-encompassing, that Leia could feel it. Nothing changed in their postures, nothing changed physically to indicate the enormous shift that occurred, but all three of them felt it.

She didn't know what Han and Luke had discussed, but she had definitely told Luke about her growing frustration with Han before they'd left to go get the heaters. Luke knew that Han had the capacity to destroy her with a cruel word, and he knew that Leia hated how much esteem she held in his opinion. Luke knew that Han had the ability to render her speechless in a moment with a look, a power no one had—not moffs or Sith or emperors. She hadn't used the word _love, _but looking back on it now, she might as well have.

And Luke had born all of it with genuine friendship. He hadn't said anything to anyone, at least she didn't think he had. He'd also never told her what Han had said about _her _to him, though she assumed the conversations had occurred for Luke to seem so pleasantly unsurprised.

Leia looked at Han, caught his gaze. Then she turned to their friend and nodded. "It's real," she said.

Luke's smile was dazzling, bright as a supernova. "And you?" he asked Han.

Han shrugged, lifted his glass to his lips and took a quick sip. _Biding his time, _she thought, because it took as much out of him as it did her to admit vulnerability in front of others.

"Real as can be," he said after a moment. "Got a job and a girlfriend. I'm boring as hell."

She swatted at him—_girlfriend _was the worst possible way to refer to her—but she understood the sentiment.

_You are quite boring, yes, _Chewie helpfully added from the galley.

Luke laughed and then nodded, accepting it all with good grace and humor. Leia settled into her own floating feelings of calm, happy to have the secret out to the people who mattered. The rest of the Alliance didn't need to know: it was none of their business. But bringing Luke into it made it feel legitimate. It felt right to be honest.

"Congratulations, you two," Luke said, lifting his glass and taking a long sip. "I'm happy for you."

Leia nodded and sipped her own wine, pleasantly warm and feeling seen. Han's arm squeezed her shoulders closer to him and she set a hand on his thigh, running ideas in her head of how to properly thank him for his insistence that they bring Luke into the fold. Maybe she could convince Chewie to stay in her quarters tonight so that Han and she could sleep here, on the _Falcon. _That held vast possibility: they hadn't yet tried the water shower ….

"And since we're telling secrets," Luke said. "I should also probably tell you about the betting pool."

She stopped, her mind halting in its distracted spinning. "I'm sorry. The _what?"_

_The end_

* * *

_Author's Note: _Clay and Pearl 2 _will be debuting this winter. It is shaping up to be a fun, twisty story and I'm so excited to share it with you. If you haven't already, please add me to your notifications so that you will be in the know when the prologue drops. _

_Special thanks again to Amongst the Emerald Clouds for the quick beta! And thank you for reading!_

_-KR_


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